woman. Now he asked her if she
would come and keep his house and educate his child. She promptly
telegraphed "Yes," and within a month had sold her business, travelled
to Norway, and entered upon all her duties. A disease of the hip-joint
from which she had long suffered had become worse, so that she had
difficulty in walking. But from the wheeled arm-chair which she brought
with her, and which her stout person completely filled, she managed the
whole household, including Anders himself. He was quite alarmed by her
cleverness. She seldom left her chair, and yet she knew of everything
that happened. Walls did not conceal from her eyes; distance did not
exist for her. Much of this power of hers was explained by the acuteness
of her senses, by her cleverness in interpreting words and signs,
reading looks and expressions and drawing inferences from them, and by
her skill in the art of questioning. But there was something that defied
explanation. When danger threatened any one she loved, she was aware of
it--sitting in her chair. With a loud exclamation--always in English on
such occasions--she sprang up, and actually ran. This happened, for
instance, on the memorable day when Marit, on her bicycle, fell into the
river and was fished out again by two men from the steamer; for it was
close to the landing-place that the accident occurred; she was on her
way there. On the way home she and Mrs. Dawes met--the one dripping with
sea-water and screaming, the other dripping with perspiration and
screaming.

Mrs. Dawes went the round of the house every day--outside, if
necessary, as well as inside--but she seldom went farther. On this round
she saw everything--including what was about to happen, the servants
declared.

There was a suggestion of floating about her. She sat floating in paper.
She carried on, at least according to Anders Krog, a constant
correspondence with every one who had ever lived in her house. It was
carried on in all languages and upon all subjects; a considerable part
of her time was spent in introducing what she read--and she read far
into the night--into her letters. She moved her chair to the table on
which lay her desk; then she turned away from the table to read.
Fastened to the arm of the chair was a reading-desk, on which she laid
the book; she seldom held it in her hand. Memoirs were her favourite
reading; gossip from them she at once transferred to her letters. Next
came art magazines and books of tra